


The Tempest

by ReginaCorda



Category: Fleurmione - Fandom
Genre: F/F, Fleur's POV, Reflection, Reverie, angsty, thoughtful
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-02
Updated: 2014-03-02
Packaged: 2018-01-14 09:02:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1260679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReginaCorda/pseuds/ReginaCorda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A look into Fleur Delacour's thoughts and memories during Witnessed Here in Time and Blood while Hermione is in Australia. Written with the consent of WhistletheSilver.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Tempest

**Author's Note:**

> So this next one is a little one-chaptered bit I found inspiration for in the form of Witnessed Here in Time and Blood, but of course, there’s no shocker there. I would like to point out that Whistle the Silver wrote that incredible work, and I would never dream of taking any credit from her. It isn’t necessary to read Witnessed first, but it will deepen the understanding and magnitude of this fic if you’ve already read it or choose to do so. But I will warn readers who have not yet read it and choose to. Prepare to lose your soul. Once Whistle has it, she won’t let go, even if she wants to. It's truly a beautiful story, and dear god, I still find myself rereading it to this day.  
> This is a rather poetic story is told from Fleur’s perspective and is a collection of memories, emotions and thoughts from the time she shared with Hermione at Shell Cottage during Witnessed, given form after the war, but before Hermione returns to the cottage to have questions asked and answers received. I use several literary tools, such as allegory, repetition, symbolism, and a little bit of pathetic fallacy (although it’s more for the flow of thought rather than to portray emotion) just to have a bit of fun. And there’s sex mentioned. Nothing terribly explicit, but sex all the same. With that said, and if you’re still interested, let’s jump in.

I sit in thought, staring out the window into the garden, one name and one night endlessly playing in my head. The sea begins to raise its voice in herald of dusk, but a small patch of sunshine still bleeds on the roses I planted, despite the dark masses of gathering clouds. How long have I sat here? How long have I thought? Thunder rolls in the distance; so far away I perceive it as a mere purr. Hermione had been lightening, and I thunder, for I would follow her wherever she may run had she only given me the chance. Had I been given the chance, had I been worthy of such a prospect, perhaps I would stand by her side and fight her demons with her at this moment, rather than sit here in desolation and reverie.

The small rays of bleeding sunlight recede quickly, and the purr of thunder matures. The low rumble lacks the true power of a full tempest; raindrops begin to fall on the trees with a quickening cadence, rolling off their leaves. The pale sand darkens under the assault, the sea rearing its head and pounding against the shore with building strength.

How perfect that night was, even though memory’s justice is brittle. We crashed together and met the ends of one another to complete the circle and make the other whole. How tenderly she kissed me, shaking uncertainly as she cupped my face between her hands, her lips parting against my own with receding trepidation. Nervousness gleamed in her eyes, unsure, calculating, no doubt rethinking, but a fire burned there as well; a fire I yearned to reach into and stoke until the flames burned so brightly it rivaled the stars. And how bright she burned, how I watched sparks fly the instant I touched her. For a brief moment, that fire was hidden as she closed her eyes, her back arched in desperation to close the space between our bodies.

She clung to me, her hands grasping my hair, her body yearning for more contact. I was smugly surprised to find her in such a state; her hair splayed about her in a magnificent fan of auburn waves on the sand, her chest heaving with heavy breaths. Her eyes opened with a question, and I saw her fire burning, watching my own flare in the reflection I found.

There, on the sand and beneath the stars, we made each other whole. We freed one another from the pain of war, the memories that came with it, and for a moment, nothing else existed. Nothing else mattered. For that moment, she was free, and love was given complete sovereignty. She broke free from the chains that had held her down, and lost herself in what we created together. My name tumbled from her lips in a prayer, laminating the promise of the spell we had cast together. I met her halfway, answering her every unspoken wish and desire. She arched up again, shaking as orgasm swept through her, my name rising through octaves from her lips and finishing with another, softer utterance in a sigh, her hands beckoning me to draw nearer again.

How I long to return to that night, to her arms and her warmth, her fire so fiercely burning long after the stars had died, retreating into darkness after they had been put to shame by my lightening. I held her, watching her chest rise and fall with every breath, counting them until she could speak again without a tremor in her voice. When she did, it was with wonder and amazement. When she fell asleep, it was with a smile on her lips, happily breathing in the salty sea air as the ocean pounded on the beach, the only sound in my ear as I, too, drifted off to sleep.

Those memories are vivid in my mind, surging back into near-reality with ease. Goose flesh rises along my skin; that night meant more to me than she may ever know, and how desperately do I hope she returns to find out just how much.

The rain falls heavily now, the thunder properly roaring, so loud and so near, the little cottage shakes. Of course, it has withstood stronger tempests, harder bellows. It watched as we tore our lives apart, as we longed for one another but refused ourselves the selfish luxury, as we finally fell victim to each other’s embrace and offerings. It stood witness to the lives forever changed with the making of a single decision and perhaps, in another world or maybe even the future, it could see the righting of wrongs and the unrestrained, untainted pursuit of love. We had been the storm that threatened to shake this home to rubble.

We, with one act, one realization, and a single unspoken truth roaring within our hearts had threatened and very nearly torn this house and lives within it asunder. The promises I guard made me a traitor with any word I uttered, but she trusted me and my unjust silence. I healed her wounds, stitched her back together and offered protection in the only way I had, as silly and outdated as it is but she can’t know. Not yet. Not until she begins asking questions and pulling at the strings I so meticulously left untied. Until the façade unravels and the whole truth spills out like rain upon rooftop.

Lightening flashes and another roll of thunder shakes the atmosphere in pursuit after it, so quickly, so dauntlessly, I perceive them as happening in unchallenged harmony. I sigh heavily, my breath fogging the glass where rain splatters and runs in multitudes of rivers. Where is she now? Pursuing her parents in Australia, in hope that they will understand and accept her into their arms again as though she’d never left and taken their memories with her? What awaits her? Acceptance or rejection? Love or pain?

Guarded only by her wand, her intellect, and the spell I so desperately hope will protect her from whatever ails she might find, magical or otherwise. Despair grips my heart at the notion. How desperately I wish I could be with her, how desperately I wish she had allowed me to follow her to offer a hand to hold or a shoulder to cry upon.

Our war was over, and I had fought alongside her, but this was not my battle nor my place, despite my fervent and fruitless wishes. She deserves peace, but when will she find it? When will it settle in her heart? When will the wounds I had closed and reopened finally scar over for good? Will I be the one to close them again, apology written into every stitch? We had emerged scathed and traumatized, but alive and kicking, too. Exhausted, maimed and perhaps even very near death, but we survived to continue this game of tiptoeing around the truth that, had she been watching rather than experiencing, she could have found so much sooner. Was it worth it? Was surviving worth the risk it posed so keenly? She could run away or into my arms, once the truth comes to light. I’m equally terrified of both.

The sand is thick and dark along the shore now, the waves leaping up in an eager competition to see which one could reach the farthest. Another memory surfaces; one of a football game played on that beach, of my arms tightly around her as she laughed and fought against my tickling fingers, the sand beneath my bare feet as I chased after her across the shore.

How I miss hunting my lightening. How I miss chasing her on the sand, following her with touches, whispers, and prayers offered up to every deity, pursuing those small smiles so hard won, but how rewarding they were! When the sun broke free of cloud, her eyes crinkled at the corners with joy, and her laugh chasing away the shadows from my heart.

That was when she struck.

That was when she made me hers, though it took ages for me to realize. Ages for me to admit. Seconds for me to despair, for the promises left unbroken to so many multitudes of people carved a rift between what we had built together, would we could continue to build, if only given the chance.

But how dearly I want to build again, to take up the rubble our storm left behind and try again, this time with a foundation of truth and light rather than half-lies and dark secrets. How I long to see the light burst in her eyes again, her intellect shining there with a decorum rivaling that of the sun, moon and stars alike. How I ache for her gentle, tentative affection that she bestowed so easily to me. How gently and readily her attentions had been, once the first kiss had been given, received and returned to me again.

And that was when I chased her, answering her fearless displays with roars of approval. No matter what comes from this, I will wait until she strikes again, and again I will raise my voice behind her, supporting her as friend, lover, or consort, whichever she may choose after the dust settles.

I now find that I no longer care about the outcome, I only want to erase the stain I left on her heart. I want to bring light to her eyes rather than despair and broken hope when she looks at me. I want to send a smile to her lips, a crinkle to the corners of her eyes with a glance, with a word, with the truth. I want—no, I need her to know that my intentions and actions were never to bring her anguish, but to protect her, to save her, to save everyone, for if she had fallen, nothing would matter. Everything would crumble. I need her to know the love I hold is hers and hers alone, just as the thunder belongs to the lightening as it races across the sky. Just as I had healed her wounds. Just as I had held her when the comfort she needed never required voice. Just as I had sang for her when it did. Just as I had chased her across the sand. Just as I had followed her into battle. Just as I had watched her go, and as I wait for her to flash again.

She is lightening, and I her thunder, for wherever she might strike, I will roar with all my voice so that she may hear me.


End file.
